Page 35
By Jack Joseph Smith
This is the time not to listen,
Harvested field fire makes nucular clond;
While children move under the smoke
That is an ancient rite
Free from sight,
Spinning;
Body
Twirls
Of laughter,
Removed from the modern dance of death:
Self made four wheel drive night light;
Hunter,
Silent arrow, or powered rifle
Will keep whiskey breath
From kissing rabits in the ditch tonight.
Mad salvage-man of the junk yard plains.
Distroyer of economic images,
Huge iron money man
With one mind and no overhead
He is the wild candelabra church thief
He is the gleamed eyed brass watcher
Loving closed factories in his vision
Of shambles